


Let Them Eat Cake

by April_Valentine



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Episode Related, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-01
Updated: 2012-09-01
Packaged: 2017-11-13 07:35:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/501036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/April_Valentine/pseuds/April_Valentine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set immediately after the episode "Many Happy Returns", Finch visits Reese in the loft apartment he gave him for his birthday.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let Them Eat Cake

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first POI fic. 
> 
> Thanks to Mamahub for the beta and Draycevixen for encouragement and helpful commentary.

Reese stood looking out the window, unable to suppress the smile when he recognized the square where he met his friend Han for Xiangqi and the other old Chinese people gathered to practice their Tai Chi. _Oh yes, Finch gives me my privacy,_ he thought. But this time, there was no anger. He’d left that behind, in Mexico.

He’d been kind of hard on Finch, he acknowledged. When he had realized that his employer hadn’t told him about their number and that in particular this number was someone who so desperately needed his help, someone he could be in time to help, as he hadn’t been able to help Jessica... he’d barely restrained the fury he’d felt.

Wasn’t it enough that Finch knew everything about him? That he had been watching him for a “long time” in what amounted to stalking? That he manipulated Reese the way he clicked those keys at his computer? He’d given him the day off for his birthday -- _What a sap I was to believe for a moment he didn’t have an ulterior motive for getting rid of me that morning._

 _What was I supposed to do,_ Reese wondered, remembering how he’d gone back to the little room he’d been renting, put his espresso pot on the stove and then had nothing to do but stare out the window and, when there still were no messages from Finch, think about Jessica. _Nothing to do. Nobody to be with. Nothing to think about but those awful hours in New Rochelle._

The memories hadn’t been haunting him so much since Finch had hired him. But they’d come back that day full force, all the guilt, all the anger, all the emptiness. It was his birthday, and he couldn't help remembering the one birthday he'd spent with Jessica. He’d never been able to keep from thinking about her when he had nothing else to do. So, in an effort to shove them back where he didn’t have to look at them, he’d followed Finch.

He'd been trying, lately, to find some way to put Jessica's memory in perspective. He knew he wasn't the only person who'd ever lost someone, or even the only person who felt they might have been able to save someone they loved. And many people, Reese knew, had loved and lost and gone on to find someone else.

Sometimes, he wasn't even sure he wanted to do that. When he was in the mood to punish himself, he reasoned that he didn't deserve love now, not when Jessica didn't even get to go on with her life, not when all the other bad things he'd done were added up.

For a long time, he'd isolated himself so much that he didn't think he'd ever even meet anyone he could fall in love with. He had more opportunities to meet people now, but he couldn't just casually say to a random number, "Hey, once I get your life back on track, would you like to go out for coffee?"

Who else did he know well enough? Carter? Though she was attractive, Reese knew that was a line he would never cross. He respected her too much, needed her too much. And he knew, from long experience as an operative, that you didn't get that close to someone from whom you had to keep secrets. He wanted her help with the numbers but he didn't want to put her in a position where she felt she owed it to him to help, where she would have to compromise herself as a cop because of a relationship with Reese. Plus, she was too good a person, had ideals and integrity that were too high to get involved with someone like Reese. Like Jessica, Carter was really too good for a man like him.

Annoyed with himself at the direction his thoughts were taking, Reese stepped away from the window. He shrugged out of his coat and suit jacket, finding a hook on the wall by the door to hang them on. He really should explore the apartment a little more, he thought, check the cupboards and refrigerator. If he knew Finch, they wouldn't be empty.

There was a long granite counter with several modernistic stools on one side, with a full kitchen on the other. A big gas stove stood waiting for someone who could cook; Reese could make coffee.

Not a number. Not Carter. That left, of the other two people he regularly associated with who were single, Fusco and Finch.

Not only was Fusco an asset, the mere idea of Reese propositioning him was so ludicrous he nearly laughed out loud in the stillness of the loft. Fusco would sooner get cozy with a sewer rat than he would another man.

That left the man known to him as Harold Finch. Reese rubbed at his forehead, thinking that over.

When he’d learned that there really was a number that day, that Finch had lied to him because of his “sensitivities”, he’d barely been able to keep from punching the man who both drove him crazy and had given him a reason to live again.

 _He promised he’d never lie to me_ , Reese remembered thinking. Or was that just a joke? Some platitude the scared, crazy man had thrown out to get Reese to take his hands off his neck in that hotel room?

Reese shook his head. _Crazy... no._ He hadn’t really thought about Finch that way since the beginning, when he’d seemed just a geeky, bored rich guy with nothing better to do than bail an ex soldier out of jail and promise to give him something better than a support group or pills. Reese really hadn’t known quite what to make of Finch then. All he could see was the glasses, the suits, the prissy, guarded way he told Reese he knew all about him but wouldn’t divulge a single thing about himself. The deserted library with the computers nobody knew about, the paranoia, the money -- there had been times Reese had wanted to just shake him to get the facts he needed and wanted.

Finch had followed him, studied him and said he needed him, but he didn’t trust him.

Reese understood the not trusting part. He didn’t give his own trust easily. But it frustrated him that it couldn’t in any way be a two way street with Finch. _The man is so paranoid he sees an interrogation in every question -- wouldn't even tell me what he likes to order in a restaurant for fear I'd know too much about him._ Every time he thought Finch might be ready to give a little bit of himself, he realized the man was only pretending to share one of his secrets, that for every secret revealed, there were a thousand more Reese could never discover.

But he wanted to discover them, some of them at least. He couldn’t help himself, couldn’t help tailing Finch, getting Fusco to follow him, and there’d been times when he’d even wanted to ask Carter to see what she could find out about him... but part of -- John could admit it now -- part of the fun was seeing what he could figure out about Finch. And getting to know Finch little by little, just as much as helping him with the numbers, was giving Reese a reason to live. If he ever found out everything, would Finch be as fascinating to him? Reese wasn’t sure. Yet he suspected that the more he learned about Finch, the more he’d want to know, that Finch possessed untold depths, secrets that perhaps he would only reveal to Reese, secrets even more fascinating than the Machine. Secrets of his heart.

Reese knew he had one. Even if he didn’t often show it to him, the numbers evoked sympathy and caring from Finch. And Reese had seen that Finch was capable of showing his feelings. He had cared for Leila. He had even cared for Reese when he’d been shot. There’d been times during Reese’s convalescence when he’d wanted to tell Finch how much he meant to him, that coming to get him after he’d been shot mattered even more than giving him a job and a second chance did. Through Finch, Reese’s heart had started to heal as well as his body and his spirit.

So, of the people Reese knew and talked to on a daily basis... smothering another smile, Reese decided perhaps he should steer clear of that idea. Instead, he walked the length of the loft, still amazed by the size of the space, listening to his footsteps echo in the quiet room.

At least he wasn’t mad at him anymore. When he’d realized the reason Finch had thought he might be sensitive about the number being stalked by her abusive husband, Reese had felt a kind of dull resignation. Finch knew even that about him. He knew about Jessica -- Reese had been aware of that since that day at the Ritz Carlton when Finch had casually thrown her name out. Reese had barely stopped himself from strangling Finch for daring to defile her memory by saying her name. But that wasn't all Finch knew.

He knew about New Rochelle. He knew that Reese had realized she wasn’t as happy with Arndt as he’d hoped, that he’d made the worst mistake of his life in letting her go, in thinking she’d be better off with a man like Arndt instead of what Reese had become. And Finch had obviously realized that, despite the fact that they'd dealt with other women in abusive situations before Sarah, that dealing with her situation on his birthday might affect what he'd euphemistically called Reese's sensitivities.

Reese rubbed a hand over his eyes, refusing to let the feelings that had overwhelmed him in New Rochelle come back, not here, not in this huge, beautiful loft that was apparently his. He turned back, slowly returning to the windows, his heart feeling heavy. Pacing through Arndt’s house that evening, he’d been shattered, finding out Jessica had died two months before he’d been able to get to her, watching those home movies that made him think Peter might not have been the wonderful guy she’d made him out to be.

Sitting there in the man’s home, the full weight of Jessica's death had begun to hit him. Arriving home, Arndt had asked him who he was, and what he wanted from him. Reese hadn’t known the answers, his voice barely able to form the words he said. He’d lost so much. What would losing more of himself matter, he’d thought as he rose from the chair to confront the man who thought a fireplace iron would protect him from an ex CIA operative.

A buzzer sounded, startling Reese. Realizing it was the door bell, he turned from the windows and went to check the peep hole. He wasn’t surprised to find Finch on the other side of his door.

“Mr. Reese?” Finch called, moving as if to try to peer through the tiny hole in the door, “Are you in there?” He moved back, his eyes darting from side to side as though he were concerned someone in the corridor might have heard him and Reese saw him nervously adjust his tie.

Smiling at the idea of Finch wanting to be sure his tie was in place before Reese saw him, Reese opened the door. “Yes, Harold,” he said, “I’m here. Where else did you think I’d be?”

“I don’t know, Mr. Reese,” Finch said, his eyes glancing everywhere but at Reese. “You go many places that I know nothing about.”

John shook his head. “Sure I do.” He opened the door wider. “Well, come on in, then. I guess you want to see how I like the place.” He stepped aside, gesturing to Finch to enter the loft.

Finch stiffly bent to retrieve a large basket he’d placed on the floor, then crossed the threshold. He looked around curiously as if he’d expected Reese to have redecorated in the short time since they’d parted company at the bridge.

He turned his body back toward Reese, an expectant look on his face that made him seem almost boyish. “Do you like it?”

“Don’t know yet. I only got here a little while ago.” Reese gestured toward the windows. “The light’s great, but...”

“Oh,” Finch said hastily, “I’m sure you can have some blinds made to assure yourself of some more privacy, but one of the reasons I chose this building is that there isn’t one directly across from it which will prevent someone from being able to easily observe you here.”

Reese wasn’t sure about that. He had spotted at least five places a sniper could set up for access to the place, but he didn’t say that out loud. He figured he’d been rough enough on Finch when he’d ordered him out of the car before going off to find Jennings and rescue Sarah. Finch had looked actually terrified, as if he’d expected Reese to point a gun at him to ensure his compliance. Reese also knew Finch had taken the step of calling Carter to try to stop him from killing Jennings.

“What have you got there?” he asked, deliberately turning his mind from that subject once again.

“What?” Finch asked. For the second time, Reese noted that his employer seemed nervous. He gestured to the basket Finch had carried inside.

“Oh, this?” Finch held it out, looking self-conscious. “A little housewarming gift.”

Reese shook his head. Only Finch would bring a housewarming gift to someone he’d just given a home. Unless...

“Uh,” Reese began, suddenly nervous himself, “the key. Is this place really... mine? Or are you just maybe suggesting I rent it from you?” He had already learned never to assume anything about the man who called himself Harold Finch.

“Yes, yes! Of course it’s yours,” Finch assured him, limping over to the long granite bar in the kitchen area to deposit the basket. “I wouldn’t have given you the key otherwise. If I’d wanted to offer you a place to rent, I’d have handed you an envelope with a lease in it.” He looked up at Reese, a hesitant smile on his face.

Reese relaxed under that diffident smile. “Harold. It’s... it’s incredible. I don’t know how to thank you.” He moved to stand closer to Finch. “I was surprised, you know, when you wished me a happy birthday. I didn’t expect a gift at all.

“I know,” Finch answered quickly. “I’m sorry I forgot to give you the address with it that day. I had my mind on other things.”

Reese couldn’t help bristling. “I know. You lied to me.” He said the words softly, without rancor, but he had to say them. He hadn’t realized until that day how much he had wanted to believe Finch’s promise.

He was surprised when Finch reached out to clasp his arm. “I know, John. And I’m sorry. When I told you I’d never lie to you, I did mean it. I didn’t expect to see you at the library so early that morning and I... was flustered. I’d intended to say something that wasn’t so much a lie as... perhaps an obfuscation.” When Reese opened his mouth to speak, Finch held up his hand. “No. You’re right. Whatever I would have said, it still wouldn’t have been the truth. Can you forgive me? I had the best of intentions.” There was something of that boy again in Finch’s face, an earnest desire for Reese to understand his motivations. “I never meant to hurt you, John.”

Reese sighed. He’d learned months ago that it was hard to stay mad at his employer. Maybe it had happened about the same time he’d realized that with his paranoia and isolation, Finch wasn’t that good at reading people and dealing with them. But he did want to do what was right for them. For the ones the Machine told him needed help, and for Reese too.

He looked away, considering his words. “I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t hurt. Angry,” he said. “At least at first,” he went on quickly at Finch’s look of distress. “I don’t like being manipulated.”

Finch moved closer to him, his grip on Reese’s arm tightening fractionally. “I know. I’m sure that’s what your handlers did to you... “ His voice trailed off, as though he’d inadvertently revealed something else he knew about Reese.

“They did,” John admitted, his voice dropping to a lower level. “But you were kinder about it than they were.” He took a deep breath, wanting to make himself clear. “They wanted to make sure I didn’t have any feelings at all.” He looked away. Somehow, realizing Finch knew all the facts and figures of his life, he thought the man must be able to perceive his most deeply guarded thoughts as well. After all, the Machine knew what was going on in people’s heads.

After a moment’s silence, Finch patted Reese’s arm and changed the subject. “How about a toast, to your new home?”

Reese pressed his lips together, shrugging off the ache in his chest. “Why not?”

Finch was already pulling a magnum of champagne from the basket. It was wrapped in a white linen napkin and was obviously already chilled. He retrieved a corkscrew and two crystal flutes from the basket as well. He sat the glasses on the counter and passed the bottle and corkscrew to Reese. “Will you do the honors?”

Reese actually chuckled then, trying to remember the last time he’d opened champagne. He had probably been wearing a tux, and had been in some other country. The agency had taught him both to kill and to act the playboy. Now he managed to pull off uncorking the bottle like a Monte Carlo hustler, bowing a little as he filled their glasses and handed one to Finch.

“You do that very well, Mr. Reese,” Finch responded, accepting his flute. “I didn’t realize how skilled you were.”

Reese snorted, but managed to not roll his eyes. He held his glass up and faced Finch over the edge of the sparkling crystal.

“To your new home,” Finch said, his voice sobering but his eyes full of light. “May you have many restful nights here and be very comfortable.”

Reese clicked his glass against Finch’s and without further words, they both sipped. The sparkling beverage was delicious, the real stuff of course, as if Finch would have spared any expense. John looked around at the mostly empty loft. “There is a lot of space,” he noted. The place would hold at least ten of the room he'd been renting. Though Reese had never felt he needed much in the way of amenities, there was something so right about the spacious loft. He could relax here, he thought, pace this huge room from end to end when the tension got too bad, as he never could in the tiny hotel rooms and cheap efficiencies he'd favored. They were cells that had seen many men come and go, never places anyone would want to stay, and that had suited Reese. But this... he thought maybe that Finch knew more about him than he did himself, if he realized how much John needed a refuge that he could truly call his own, a sanctuary unlike those hotels with stained walls that hemmed him in and made him feel like he had a reason to hide inside them.

“I thought you might like to make the decorating choices yourself,” Finch said, following his gaze around the sparsely furnished space. They both seemed to look at the bed at the same time. “But I wanted you to be able to sleep here tonight, without having to shop.” Seemingly embarrassed, Finch took another sip from his flute.

The bed, Reese had already noticed, was huge. The hand carved oak platform that was no doubt as solid as it looked stood halfway between the door and the windows. The bed sheets and spread were folded neatly on the king size mattress. Reese didn’t think he’d ever slept in a bed that magnificent. Only a few months ago, he’d had no bed to sleep in at all.

When he looked back at Finch, Reese noticed the man’s cheeks had gone slightly pink. If he asked why, he knew he’d never get an answer, so he ignored Finch’s discomfiture. He had enough of his own to deal with as it sank in that, not only had Finch bought him a home, the man had actually bought him a bed. It was an incredibly personal gesture. He cleared his throat, but before he could say anything, Finch spoke up.

“It’s big, I know,” he said, as though casting about for an explanation, “but I thought... since you’re rather tall, that you’d need the room to stretch out.”

Reese couldn’t help smirking. “Oh I’m sure I can stretch out in it all right. So could five or six other people, too.”

“Do you often sleep with five or six people at a time, Mr. Reese?” Finch asked in that half incredulous, half sarcastic way of his.

When Reese didn’t answer, Finch continued, “Or do you prefer your partners one at a time?” Now he was being sarcastic, Reese thought, looking at him.

Finch’s eyes were watching him over his glasses but what Reese found in them wasn’t sarcasm, or even snark. Finch almost looked like he was...flirting with Reese.

 _No._ Reese closed his eyes and took a breath. When he reopened them, Finch was still regarding him, his eyes now frankly appraising. It couldn’t be, could it? He wasn’t even sure Finch was actually capable of knowingly flirting. Or maybe he was. Maybe he’d been flirting with Reese ever since they’d met.

Reese decided two could play at Finch’s game. “You know I’m a man of many talents, Harold,” he said, tipping his flute to finish the champagne. “Don’t you think I could keep five or six people in my bed satisfied?”

Finch broke his gaze then, as if Reese’s brazen comment had been too much for him. “Mr. Reese, I assure you, while I may know a lot about you, there are actually certain things which I have not attempted to ascertain.”

“Oh, really?” Reese moved into Finch’s space, reaching to take the empty flute from the billionaire’s fingers. “I thought you knew _exactly_ everything about me.” As he took the glass, his fingers grazed Harold’s and Reese was startled to feel the other man shudder. He loomed over Finch, holding his eyes with his own. “You’re good at research on a computer, Finch. But I find out things with field work.”

Harold’s tongue crept out to wet his lips as Reese held his gaze.

“That’s what you hired me for, isn’t it?” He remembered saying nearly those same words to Finch a few days ago, when he was telling him he’d handle Jennings without the so-called help from the police, reminding Finch that if he didn't like the way Reese did things, he should hire someone else.

Harold broke his gaze then, turning to limp toward the windows. “As you continually remind me, Mr. Reese. You have made it quite clear any number of times that I often misread situations.”

Though he wasn’t surprised that Finch chose to break off their game, Reese nevertheless felt bad. He knew Finch liked to keep the upper hand, knew he was good at winning a war that consisted of words, and never admitted to anything but the most serious of motivations. Yet he couldn’t help feeling that his cavalier comments had somehow hurt the man’s feelings. He put the empty glasses on the counter, and hurried to follow his employer across the room.

“Finch, I’m sorry,” he said, feeling flustered and not quite sure why. He caught at Harold’s arm, but the other man wouldn’t turn back to look at him.

Instead, Reese moved to stand in front of him, between Finch and the windows. “I’m sorry. I was just... teasing you.” He ducked his head, then looked back up. “I really, really love the loft. And the bed, everything. You have no idea what it means to me.” Reese paused to clear his throat. “You have no idea how long it’s been since someone’s even wished me a happy birthday.” He wanted to say more, to express what the consideration of the loft and the bed meant to him, but the words stalled in his throat. No matter how he tried, he knew he wouldn’t be able to make Finch understand. He wasn’t even sure he understood himself.

He remembered their meeting at the bridge earlier and how Finch had looked at him when he said he’d been wondering when Reese might contact him again. Had the man actually thought Reese would have stayed away? That he’d still been angry about not being told about the number?

“Really, Mr. Reese?” Finch asked, his eyes going from distanced to concerned. He reached out, his hands grasping Reese’s elbows. “You’re not... teasing now?”

“No. The CIA doesn’t exactly celebrate birthdays. You’re behind enemy lines. Nothing matters but the job you’re there to do. One day is just like another.”

Finch swallowed, some undefinable emotion playing across his face. “I’m sorry.”

Reese shrugged. “I didn’t even realize it had been that long until you said something. Dead men don’t have birthdays.”

Finch nodded. “No. I don’t suppose that we do.” He understood, maybe better than anyone else could.

“And dead men don’t have five or six... or even one... partners in their great big beds with them,” Reese stated gruffly, nearly kicking himself when the words slipped out. He could just imagine what snide comeback Finch would have for that embarrassing admission.

He'd've been wrong. What Finch said next was more shocking than finding out the key had been to his own loft.

“You’re not dead, John,” Finch said quietly, his eyes never leaving Reese’s. “You have a guest. You never know what might happen if you ask him to stay the night.”

Reese wanted to joke that now it was Finch who was doing the teasing, but somehow, the words wouldn’t leave his throat. A proposition? From his very proper employer? Before he could come up with anything to say, Finch was speaking again and this time there was no trace of diffidence or sarcasm in his words or his eyes. What Reese found there was desire, open, needful and real.

“I promised I’d never lie to you,” he whispered, his voice as visceral as a caress. “I don’t want to lie by omission either.” He blinked but went on. “I’m sure this comes as a... a surprise to you, Mr. Reese, but, I... “

Before Finch could finish, Reese covered his lips with his own. Finch's lips were soft, supple, moist and anything but passive, clinging to Reese's mouth like they never wanted to let go. Reese nearly lost himself in the taste... _so good... so damn good._

When they parted, Finch looking breathless, his lips reddened and his glasses fogged, Reese whispered huskily, “I want you too, Harold.” The realization had slammed into him as Finch had made his declaration about truth, a secret he’d been keeping from himself, the one that he’d kept just on the periphery of his mind, too afraid of his feelings to pull it close and look at it.

Even now he wasn’t sure. He kissed Finch again, before he could trust his voice. “I don’t know if we should do this, though. It could change... “

Harold cut him off by placing his fingertips over Reese's lips. “I know what you’re thinking. This could change things. But I believe that it’s possible to try out... certain experimental procedures without risking the status quo. And life is about change, isn’t it, Mr. Reese?”

“Call me John,” Reese pleaded, finding Finch’s lips again. “You know I like to hear you say my name,” he breathed, mouthing Finch’s jaw, kissing his way to the long sideburn he’d covertly fantasized about nuzzling.

“John... John....” Finch repeated his name softly, his voice going husky and wanton.

“You know everything about me,” Reese grated, licking wetly at Finch’s earlobe. “You knew I’d do this, didn’t you? You knew I wouldn’t object to a man saying he wanted me.”

Finch wrapped his arms around Reese’s waist, sounding breathless. “I thought you might not. I wasn’t sure. I wasn’t sure that... this man might be one you might not object to.”

“Harold, if you say you didn’t think I’d be attracted to you, I might have to shoot you.” Reese returned to the wet lips he’d come to crave. Finch was already beautiful in his eyes. And if the computer genius knew anything about Reese, he had to know that Reese was attracted to vulnerable, pretty women and strong, complicated men; that the few, brief male relationships Reese had had were with men who were older than he was, who were independent and stubborn and buttoned up and conservative and nothing like what anyone who knew him from the army or the CIA would have ever suspected Reese of being drawn to. Finch must have always known that, always known that Reese couldn’t help but be captivated by him.

“I don’t want you to shoot me, John,” Finch whispered secretively, “I know Agent Snow doesn’t know this about you. I know many others don’t either... “

“But you do,” Reese confirmed, returning to Finch’s lips. “You know everything about me. I thought that bothered me.”

“It doesn’t anymore?” Finch asked, his hands rubbing up and down Reese’s back.

“I’m not sure,” Reese managed between kisses that got hungrier with each repetition. “Right now it doesn’t.”

“You won’t be disappointed to find out everything about me?” Finch asked. His hands swept down to gently clasp Reese's hips.

“I have a terrible memory,” was all Reese could think of to say as Finch pulled their bodies together. “I could never know everything about you,” he amended, feeling the steely hardness of Finch’s erection pressing into his groin. “There’s too much to know.” He didn’t want to talk, couldn’t, as he crushed their mouths together again and ground his hips into Finch’s.

They were both panting when they broke apart. Finch nipped his chin as his hands worked between them to take Reese’s belt out of its loops. At the feel of Finch manhandling him, Reese’s arousal soared.

“We need to get horizontal.” He kissed Finch again, wrapping an arm around the other man to guide him to the huge bed. Once there, he shoved the folded linens on the floor and sat before Finch, reaching up to undo the tightly buttoned collar and loosen the gray silk tie.

He found the fabric damp with Finch’s perspiration and smiled slyly at the idea that he’d caused the usually unruffleable man to sweat. When he got the crisp shirt open, he leaned forward to press a kiss against Finch’s warm throat, a place he’d longed to touch every time he’d had a chance to glimpse it when Finch had worn something other than his tailored suits. While he was kissing him there, his fingers continued to work Finch’s buttons open, slowly revealing the chest he’d never been able to see before.

His hands, shaky from anticipation, parted the fine fabric of Finch’s shirt and with trembling fingers, Reese caressed the bared flesh. He encountered crisp hair and taut nipples, Finch gasping as Reese fingered them, and leaned back to feast his eyes.

“Ah, Harold.” Finch’s chest was solid, masculine perfection, the hair mostly brown with a smattering of gray, his nipples peaked and pink under Reese’s questing fingers. Before he could cover one of them with his mouth, Finch pushed at his shoulder.

“I thought you wanted to be horizontal,” he reminded, undoing his own belt with hurried hands. “You’re wasting valuable time here.”

“Sorry, Harold,” Reese smirked, helping pull the narrow leather free from Finch’s trousers, taking over for him so he could be the one to unbutton and unzip him. When he had pushed the pants down to Harold’s knees, he had to stop again, pressing his cheek against the gray silk boxers he’d revealed, inhaling Finch’s musk, the excitement making Reese's body shake uncontrollably. He could feel Finch’s hands in his hair as the man wriggled out of his shoes and stepped free of his trousers without making Reese let go of him. John's mouth opened in a silent plea as he sought Finch’s erection, still covered by his boxers yet already so hard, so damp it was wetting the fabric.

“Easy, John, easy,” Finch soothed him, as if understanding, better than Reese could himself, how overwhelmed he suddenly felt. “I’ve got you.” Finch stroked his head and shoulders, then turned him and pressed him back toward the mattress.

“Are you... I mean... do you need?” Watching Finch skim out of his boxers and socks, Reese had seldom been so unable to put words together. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he finally gasped out as he found himself flattened against the bed, with Finch kneeling over him. He worried about Finch’s neck, knowing from Dr. Tillman the details about the pins that fused his spine, and his hand slid up Finch’s back, as if to explain what he couldn’t ask outright.

“As you've no doubt observed, my neck doesn't bend well or turn,” Finch told him unselfconsciously, “but if we don’t move too quickly, I’ll be fine.”

As Finch shifted to straddle him, Reese reached up to gently cradle his neck, wrapping one arm securely around his shoulders, the tenderness flooding through him almost stronger than the arousal. Very, very slowly, Finch bent over him fully, bringing their mouths together in a gentle kiss that grew deeper, hungrier as the seconds passed. Reese loved the feel of the other man holding him, being on top of him, the way Finch's knees rested against Reese's hips so that their groins were pressed together. When he felt Finch's hand snake between them to outline his erection, he nearly lost it all.

"Mr. Reese, you still have your clothes on," Finch stated dryly, as though explaining the next number the Machine had spit out. He carefully straightened back up and began undoing the buttons of Reese's white shirt, his intent gaze following as more and more of Reese's chest was bared to him. Finally finished with the buttons, he yanked the shirt tails out of Reese's pants and spread the white fabric open.

He just looked for a long moment, then smiled, his lips shaping a satisfied curve. "John," he said, drawing out the name as his eyes moved over him. "Just look at you." The implied complement in the words went straight to Reese's dick and when Finch's hands moved in the same direction, his whole body began to shake.

As Finch finally got Reese's pants open, he reached inside, his touch eager and careful, his voice soothing. "John, it's all right," he whispered. "We can take our time."

"Not yet," John protested, feeling like he had to do it all, right now, fast and hard, with no finesse or thought, to satisfy his primal need. "Not this time." Before he could figure out if he was crazy for thinking there might be another, John sat up, wrapping his arms around Finch, holding him as close as he dared without straining his neck. He felt foolish and open and more vulnerable than he had been in years and he didn't know quite what to do or say -- except he wanted to do every thing and say every word that swept through his mind as he attempted to comprehend that he was actually holding someone, holding _Finch_ in his arms.

They kissed again, deeply, and he tasted longing in Finch's mouth, hunger in the tongue that slipped in and slid wetly against his own. Finch's hands returned to his waist, taking hold of his slacks and pulling.

Reese managed to tear his lips away from Finch's. "I... I can't get my pants off like this," he managed to say. "I... can you... move down beside me?"

Finch, looking out of breath, pulled back just enough and nodded. He carefully eased off of Reese's lower body and, with help, moved over to stretch out full length on his back. Reese stood and quickly slid out of his pants and underwear, kicking off his shoes and socks, letting his shirt fall onto the pile. He climbed back onto the bed, taking in the way Finch looked naked from the waist down and he smiled, thinking that the last thing he'd expected to see today was his employer spread out before him, resplendent in his arousal. It was all Reese could do to keep himself from falling onto the rampant erection Finch presented.

Yet he hesitated, taking a moment to reach up and carefully remove Finch's glasses. There was no table beside the bed, so he tucked them safely under a pillow, his hand then sweeping up to ruffle Finch's hair. It was softer than he'd thought, tempting his fingers to card through it again and again.

"Do you have any idea how beautiful you are?" he heard himself ask, knowing that Finch would scoff at him for blurting out such a complement. But he couldn’t take it back and part of him thought it was worth it, after that remark of Finch's about wondering if Reese would be attracted to him. Besides, it was true, and Reese didn't want to lie by omission either. And if you couldn't say something nice about the person you were with the first time you made love to them, it seemed a bit impersonal. If Finch wanted to make some kind of derisive comment or, as he often did when Reese mentioned something he didn't think was worthy of discussion, change the subject, Reese could live with it.

Instead, the older man actually blushed, and Reese could tell his ardor hadn't dampened Finch's desire when his cock bobbed invitingly at the praise. He lay down next to him, gathering the damp, heavy shaft into his hand.

He wet his lips and went down on him, hungry to taste him, to feel the other man's erection fill his mouth and throat.

"John," Finch gasped, the sound of his name feeding Reese's lust. He quaked under Reese's onslaught, his legs parting, hips lifting as he showed how much he wanted Reese's attentions. Until he groaned in pain.

Reese stopped, pulling off. "What did I do?" He felt stricken.

"It's all right, John," Finch was quick to say. "I moved my hip too far. It's been... a long time. Since before my accident. I thought I could move..."

John lay down beside him, gathering him carefully close to him. "It's been a long time for me too," he admitted, his whole body shaking. He was embarrassed; here he was, supposedly the confident agent who could accurately put a bullet in the knees of five men in less than a minute, and when he finally found someone who wanted him, he was too clumsy to take care of them.

"We'll figure it out together," Finch said, his lips close to Reese's ear, his hands smoothing Reese's hair.

When they'd started this, performance anxiety had been the last thing on his mind. Now Reese wasn't sure what he was going to do. All he wanted was to make this man feel pleasure, but he worried he would only hurt him, that hurt was all he was capable of.

Finch touched his chin, drawing his face up, and Reese kissed him, trying to rekindle what they'd had before. As they kissed, he ran his hand down Finch's body, somewhat surprised to find the other man's erection hadn't faded.

When their lips separated for a moment, Finch spoke, his voice husky and amused. "As you can see, that little bit of pain hasn't dampened my desire. I won't break."

"How can we do this?" Reese asked, immeasurably relieved. kissing his way down the side of Finch's neck. He took Finch’s cock in an assertive grip, stroking with confident fingers until the other man gasped.  
"Let's see," Finch mused, doing an excellent job of pretending Reese wasn’t driving him to distraction. "I built the Machine. Surely I can come up with a solution to our problem."

Eventually, they found a position that was not only agreeable for Finch, but one of the most erotic Reese could conceive. Finch was settled comfortably on his back, pillows supporting his neck and Reese straddling his shoulders, his weight balanced on his spread thighs. Finch locked eyes with him as he took Reese's cock into his mouth, sucking him deep, hands supporting Reese's hips.

Reese kept his movements controlled, even when the sweet suction threatened to drive him out of his mind. Finch's mouth and tongue were amazing, patient, hungry, loving, drawing Reese down into paradise. He rose up onto his knees so that Harold could take him deep, grasping the oak headboard for balance. Finch’s deft fingers caressed his ass, delving between his cheeks to stroke his perineum, the new jolts of pleasure making Reese gasp and writhe. He undulated slowly, hands clenching on the golden wood for fear if he used them to grasp Harold, he'd wrench him in reaction to the uncontrollable bliss.

Finch drew off, wrapping one hand around Reese's cock, licking languidly up and down the length, then opening his swollen lips to suck Reese deep again, all the way down, while the fingers of his other hand teased Reese's balls from behind. The sight of the normally controlled man giving him such pleasure became too much and Reese had to close his eyes or lose it and start fucking in earnest. He threw his head back, eyes on the ceiling, his long body covered in sweat, gliding to the rhythm Finch set, up and down, up and down, as Finch took him all the way to his root again and again. Finch was in control, so adept in giving this way that he kept Reese just at the edge of madness, assuring that he wouldn't pump his hips too hard or hurt him. It went on and on until Reese was delirious, every muscle straining, strung out on delight, sight and sound and comprehension fading out as feeling took over, hanging forever at the precipice over which Finch had bound him.

And then Finch took him over that edge, his tongue swirling against Reese's cock as he sucked, fingers shoving up against Reese's balls, finding nerves that burst into life as he probed them, the intensity finally too much to bear. Reese bucked and gasped, thrusting forward into Finch's mouth, cursing as he came hard, aware of Finch swallowing every drop, never gagging or hesitating, and licking him clean.

Seeing stars, Reese climbed off, his arms and legs feeling weak as he gathered Finch close.

"Oh my God, Harold," he gasped, kissing Finch's mouth, his nose, his eyelids, his forehead. "Oh, God... Oh, God..." He'd been reduced to babbling.

"Was that good, John?" Finch asked rather breathlessly, suddenly back to his awkward, paranoid self, somehow unaware that he'd administered the most devastating blow job Reese had ever had.

"Harold," Reese told him as he caressed his face, meeting Finch's blue, blue eyes, his shaking fingers tracing the talented mouth that had given him so much, "that was the best."

Harold Finch blushed, as if he had no idea his talents were not confined to programming computers. Reese leaned in to kiss him, a long, lingering, deep wet meeting between their mouths, slow and patient and saying more than Reese ever could with words. When Finch reached up to wrap his arms around Reese's shoulders, Reese’s hand slid downward, his fingers skimming past Finch's expensive shirt, sliding along warm, damp flesh until he encountered what he sought, the lavish erection straining between Finch's legs. He encircled it with his left hand, stroking and pulling, careful to be gentle, his thumb roving over the head to spread the wetness gathered there, the evidence of Finch's arousal and need.

Finch gasped, pulling out of the kiss to gulp in air, his body trembling. "John," he begged, Reese's name on his lips sounding like a prayer, an order, a plea.

"I know," Reese whispered, "I know." He continued to stroke Finch, the simple gesture making the other man groan and arch his hips. Before Finch could move in a way that hurt himself, Reese rose to his knees, kissing his way down the hair-covered chest, over the surprisingly taut belly, down to the man's groin. He could feel Finch trying to lean up, his shoulders coming up off the mattress and he feared he'd hurt either his neck or his hip if he wasn't more careful.

"Let's get you sitting up," he whispered, urging Finch to change position, helping him until the older man was leaning back against the headboard, pillows at his back and hips, legs open to a comfortable angle. Still in just his open shirt, Reese thought he'd never seen anything sexier than Finch in the middle of his huge bed, his cock at attention, crimson and dripping. Now on the man's left side, Reese gathered his cock into his right hand this time, the fingers of his left delving under the open shirt in search of Finch's right nipple. Finding it, he let just the pads of his fingertips caress it at first, then he tweaked and pinched it, gently, lazily, while he watched Finch's eyes glaze over at the stimulation. After a moment, Reese lifted his left hand to his own mouth, wetting his fingers, then returning them to Finch's hard little nipple, where he used the slick spit to further arouse it, moving on in a moment to the one he'd neglected on the left side of Finch's chest, never ceasing the stroking of Finch's cock with his right hand.

Finch closed his eyes, his expression transported. Without opening them, he said in a voice husky with desire. "Mr. Reese, have I ever mentioned that I have always been quite impressed by your being ambidextrous?"

"Is that why you hired me, Finch?" Reese asked, his voice low and seductive. "So I could use both hands on you?"

"I'm actually not certain I thought it through to this conclusion," Finch responded, though he seemed to be having trouble maintaining his usual tone of propriety. Or even concentrating, Reese thought.

"I didn't think so," Reese answered smugly, abandoning conversation as he leaned over to pull Finch's cock into his mouth. Finch was like no one else he'd ever been with, clean and musky at the same time, smooth and hard and swollen, damp and straining. Reese wanted to make Finch come until he wept with pleasure and exhaustion, wanted to taste his semen and swallow it down, owning that much of Finch, knowing that much of him, even if he knew nothing else. The idea that Finch would let him do this, let him take this liberty, share this intimacy, nearly drove Reese out of his mind.

He'd been broken, but Finch had found him, worthless but Finch had needed him, angry but Finch had been patient with him.

So Reese gave to him, all the pleasure Finch could imagine, all the delight he could bear, all the stimulation his broken body could handle. He sucked Finch's cock with all the skill he possessed and hadn't used in so long. He'd nearly forgotten how good it felt to make love to a man this way but now Reese gave Finch all he could, all his thanks and his respect, all his energy and devotion. He let Finch's beautiful, big, uncut cock fill his mouth and his throat, stretch his lips and his breath, inundate his taste and smell and satiate his hunger. Reese didn't know what amazed him more, the idea that someone wanted him or the knowledge that he wanted someone. He'd been so empty for so long, so alone, so broken.

But every day with Finch a little bit of him got glued back together. Every day he found another of the pieces of his soul and every day he came a little further out of the darkness.

He concentrated all his feelings on Finch and sucked and stroked and soothed him. He could feel Finch's fingers playing with his hair, could hear Finch's voice chanting his name, could sense Finch's body growing closer to orgasm.

"That's it, Harold," he breathed, his lips hot and wet against Finch's straining cock. "Come for me. Please... " And he opened his lips once again and sucked Finch in and felt his balls draw tight and his body tense and his semen shoot, streaming into Reese's hungry mouth so he could swallow every bit. Finch's taste was as unexpected as everything else about him, not bitter, not bland, just his essence, and Reese thought he might be able to live on that substance for the rest of his life. He never wanted to release Finch's cock from his mouth and continued sucking languidly once his ejaculation ended, prolonging the bursts of pleasure he could feel still rocking the now trembling body he bent over. He used his hands to stroke and soothe the quaking, sobbing man in his bed, nuzzling his face against Finch's groin, feeling his own face damp from what might have been his own unexpected tears.

Finally, Finch shook in his arms, agitated by the continued attention Reese was giving his cock, growing too sensitive to tolerate the caresses and licks yet seemingly reluctant to tell Reese to stop. Reese did on his own, then, easing up to gather Finch close, helping him to slide down in the bed so he could rest in Reese's arms.

They held each other carefully, Reese realizing that Finch was experiencing some of the same amazement as he was, the same surprise and delight that they had made each other feel so much. Without looking at the other man, Reese wiped wetness from Finch's face and smoothed his hair back from his forehead. They held each other wordlessly for a long time, neither of them having the strength or the nerve to break the spell that had fallen over them. Reese knew that if he said anything, talked about the emotions that had surged through him, it would be too much, too real. A part of him was terrified he'd read too much into Finch's responses and reactions; he'd shared too much, revealed too much to the man who already knew more about him than any one man should know about another. Things could go wrong very fast in the world they inhabited. There was only the two of them and if things fell apart, if this experiment as Finch had called it couldn't be repeated or they realized they shouldn't have tried it, if this made it impossible for them to do their work, Reese didn't know what he'd do. But he'd already opened himself up to Finch when he'd accepted the job Finch had offered him; he'd already been as vulnerable to Finch as he had been to any man. And if Finch had accepted what Reese had done, the monster inside him, maybe even this wouldn't ruin what they had.

Finally, Finch broke the silence, as if he understood that Reese was having misgivings. "John?" he asked, his hand caressing Reese's head as it lay against Finch's chest.

Reese drew a deep breath, not knowing until he spoke what he was going to say, only realizing that he was revealing another secret to this man who already knew nearly everything, but that somehow, he needed to give him this one thing more.

"I... I didn't kill him," Reese said slowly, his voice so low he wasn't sure Finch could even hear him.

It took a moment for Finch to respond. "Jennings?"

Reese wasn't surprised that Finch thought that he was talking about Sarah's husband, the Federal Marshal who had used his power to stalk and terrify his wife and who Reese had threatened to kill. He'd told Finch he was going to kill him, ordered Finch from the car so he could go find him and do just that after he rescued Sarah.

"No, not Jennings," he said, his voice raspy and faint. "Arndt," he clarified. "Jessica's husband. I didn't kill him."

"John?" Finch didn't voice the question Reese knew he must be thinking, he only drew Reese closer into his embrace.

"I almost killed him. I was going to kill him. I think he'd been hurting her. I didn't have any evidence, just what my gut was telling me, but I couldn't be sure it wasn't just grief and my own guilt."

"I know, John." Finch was patient, listening, stroking Reese's temples as if he knew how much his head ached from thinking about New Rochelle.

"I got up out of that chair in his living room and saw him holding a fire place iron, thinking he could defend himself from me with that and not knowing how easy it would be for me to kill him. He'd asked me who I was and what I wanted... " Reese’s voice drifted off, then he swallowed and went on. "And I told him I didn't know who I was. That there was nothing he had that I wanted from him. Not anymore."

"It's all right," Finch said, his hand sliding down to rest at the back of Reese's neck.

"I got up and he looked at me and he recognized me. 'You're that guy from the bar, aren't you?' he said. 'The one who said he was from Puyallup, where Jessica was from. I thought it was weird that you left before I could bring her over to meet you.' And then he asked me what I wanted again." Reese's voice broke but Finch just held him.

"I almost killed him then. I should have. I wanted to. I grabbed the iron from him and stood over him. He'd already taken everything from me and I'd already killed other men for less. But I stopped myself. I wanted... I don't know. Maybe I wanted him to live with what he had done. Maybe I didn't want him to be with her in death." Reese drew a rasping breath. "Maybe i didn't want her to know I was a killer. So I didn't kill him."

Finch still didn't speak, he just began stroking Reese's hair again, over and over. The comfort in that gesture was more than Reese had ever thought he'd have.

For so long, he'd thought there was nothing he had that he could give to anyone, nothing he could do to redeem himself, to atone for his mistakes. He'd thought there was nothing anyone would want him for or want from him. Then Finch had come into his life, and bit by bit, day by day, number by number, Reese had found he could do good instead of evil, could make good decisions instead of bad, could heal instead of hurt.

“The police in New Rochelle think I killed him. I guess one of the men he owed money to came to the house after I left." Reese sighed, shuddering a little, the admission leaving him exhausted as the love making hadn't.

"It was before we were working together," Finch said finally, repeating what he'd told Reese at the bridge when he hadn't answered Reese's question about whether Jessica's number had come up. Or maybe that had been the answer and Reese didn't need to know any more. Some things, he decided, he didn't need to know from Finch.

Finch had tried to spare him, knowing that, at least on his birthday, Reese shouldn't have to think about a man hurting a woman when he should have loved her, about a woman not being saved in time, about a mistake that nearly sapped all the strength from Reese's once strong body and mind.

"I just wanted you to know, Harold." He shifted closer, settling against Finch, pressing a kiss to the other man's chest.

"I'm glad you like the apartment, John," Finch said finally. "You can live in it as long as you want." He wrapped his arms a little tighter around Reese then.

Reese closed his eyes and let himself drift.

*****


End file.
